Meanwhile in Amsterdam
by JennJayBee
Summary: A waitress walking home from work stops by her favorite bakery and encounters a grieving Elijah.


The red-light district wasn't the safest route to take, but it was the quickest way home from work, and the tourists were mostly harmless. I also happened to pass a bakery which served some of the best coffee and pastries in Amsterdam. The detour wasn't without its perks. The sweet, warm scent of appeltaart seduced the senses before the store front was even visible, making the air almost thick enough to take a bite, and the sound of my own heels clacking against the pavement grew louder and more hurried as I found my motivation.

It was surprising to see the counter clear of its usual crowd, but I wouldn't complain. A gentleman was seated at the only available table, but the shop was otherwise empty. The appeltaart had cooled just enough to be served, and I managed to snag the first slice and an espresso before taking the other seat at the table. The first bite was better than I'd imagined. Softened sweet-tart apples and syrup so warm that it was almost searing made it impossible to resist closing my eyes to release an appreciative sigh.

The man across from me purposefully cleared his throat and his dark eyes shot me a disapproving glare as he took a sip of his own espresso, his other hand maintaining a possessive grasp of a smart phone with an English display. The text on his phone was obscured by his fingers, and the look on his face gave the impression that I was interrupting him. The suit he wore was custom tailored, far too expensive for this part of town. The indignation combined with a strong jaw line implied nobility, but the smell of alcohol—and lots of it—betrayed him for what he really was.

I returned my own unimpressed glower. "_Ik ben niet in de stemming voor dronken toeristen._"

The deep laugh he gave in response was unexpected, the fact that he'd understood what I said and the eloquence with which he spoke was a shock. "Drunk? I suppose I am. My sincerest apologies for my lack of manners. It seems neither of us possesses much in the way of patience this evening." He smiled. "I'm Elijah."

"You speak Dutch, Elijah?"

"Vloeiend." The sip he took from his espresso almost emphasized his statement, though I doubted he'd intended it to appear that way. There was some unnatural grace to him. Each tilt of his head or wave of his hand seemed to have a purpose, as if he was hyperaware of his every movement.

I was stunned speechless for few seconds, but as rude as it was I was curious enough to question him further, the question sounding harsher than I'd intended. "I'm exhausted from work. What's your excuse?"

His expression cooled once more, and I noted something that I could swear was quiet rage. It was terrifying enough that I shrunk back into my seat and returned to my pie without the need to hear him demand I do so.

"My brother has been murdered."

"I'm sorry… I didn't know. You have my sympathies."

"I do not require _your_ sympathy." The words were spat in disgust as if I'd insulted him, but then he seemed suddenly aware of his own demeanor, and his eyes softened as his hand extended and perched upon my own. "I've frightened you again. Apologies. I am not myself, and perhaps some company for the evening might do me some good, after all."

"Sounds like a plan." My pie was getting cold, but it seemed silly to be depressed over something so trivial when the man across from me was grieving over the loss of a beloved relative.

"Tell me… What does a young woman in your profession charge these days? It's been quite some time, so I'm unfamiliar with the standard rate."

I nearly choked on an apple. Was he propositioning me? "Excuse me? I don't…"

He interrupted. "I can assure you that money is no object, and I'm willing to cover the cost for a full night."

I felt the heat rise in my face as I stood, not even aware of my own movement as I felt my palm strike his left cheek. The sharp pain that followed brought me back to my senses. I could tell that he'd glanced away as I struck, but even the blow he'd allowed me felt like it could have broken every bone in my hand. I held it to myself as I allowed my offense to enter my tone.

"I am not a _prostitute_! I'm a _waitress_!"

"I'm deeply sorry. I only assumed due to being in this part of town…"

Death in the family or not, I was not going to deal with a drunk and his assumptions. I was still in no mood for it. I slammed the Euros down onto the counter, barking an order at the poor girl tending it as I stormed out. "Get him a couple more on me. He obviously needs the caffeine."


End file.
